The Hobwit
by Odo Banks
Summary: Bango Bigguns is whisked off on a perilous adventure by a wizard and thirteen dwarfs during which he must confront a pack of sexual innuendos, a bucket load of toilet humor - and more anachronisms than you can poke a wild rabbit at!


**The ****Hobwit**

**o****r**

_**Back and Over**_

**P****RELUDE**

_...__ One evening when Bango Bigguns was barely in his Tweens he was out on one of his walks and he became so engrossed in watching two conies in the process of making more conies on a hillside that he quite lost track of time. Nightfall fell (which it tends to do, whether tautologically or not) and Bango decided he would not reach Bug End safely in the dark, for there was a rumour that the Necromancer's dark spies were in the area. (Mind you, it was only a rumour!) But as Bango had a dwarf cloak in his handbag to keep him warm (he had 'borrowed' it from a troop of travelling dwarf miner-musicians that he only later got to know - but more of that later), he decided to sleep out under the stars. He found a copse of trees with a leafy floor and he made camp in a spot overlooking the road east of Hobwiton.  
In the middle of the night, Bango was awoken by joyous sad exquisite singing. It was that particularly lovely singing that you only ever hear on quiet country roads in the middle of nowhere in high summer. Bango sat up and wiped his eyes. The voice became louder and then along the road walked a beautiful elf. Well, not so much 'walked', as 'glided'. She was not only the most beautiful elf he had ever seen, but she was the only elf he had ever seen, and her shimmering beauty set her apart from all the other beautiful elfs he had never seen. _

_Bango was enraptured and he cried out in fluent Simbarin, "Hey, Lovely Lady, don't just walk (or glide) on by, with nary a glance at me. And please don't pretend you can't come and sit with me and so forth! Of course you can! Have I not left this spot between me and that fallen pinecone to sit your loveliness upon? It is only a small gap, but surely squeezeworthy. Anyway, what else is there to do out here in the middle of nowhere when the Evenstar is shining?"  
The Elfish Lady let out a tinkering laugh (not a jolly laugh, as that would be unbecoming for an elf), and she straightaway glided up under the trees and sat with him for a nary while. It was as if she had heard his cry and was responding to it. Indeed, she was very kind and sat with him a fairly long nary while. Indeed, as the Evenstar was casting its ethereal light upon the mortal world, an unknown amount of time did pass, for time (especially Elfish Time) was quite different in those far off days.  
"I have a small flask of beer," said our Bango after a nary while (still using the Sinbarin he had learned from 'Elfish Tongues for Idiots'), "Would you like to take a wee guzzle?"  
"I've never guzzled such a liquid," answered the gorgeous Elfish Lady in a voice that could melt hearts, launch ships, and make Catholic Priests ponder their celibacy. (Of course, I can only give a vague translation of the Elfish she used, and I realize her words can't sound ever so pretty in English, but I can assure you they sounded really elegant and sensual in Elfish).  
So anyhow the Lady had a good smidgen from Bango's flask. After a moment, she sighed. "Oh, I feel a slight tingle in a part of my beautiful body, but the tingle is not in that part of my beautiful body that a man has got, but in that part of a (real) woman that a (real) woman has got, for it is in the part that in a man is missing, whether now or in time immemorial (I include herein, Elfish Time, dear Bango, if truly that be your name!) Nor is that tingle in that part of me that is the end of my finger." And she smiled at him with eyes agleam like amethysts and diamonds and carbuncles.  
Bango smiled shyly and took a swig too. "Oh I see what you mean, for I too feel a tingly sensation in a certain part of me, which is truly the part that a (real) Lady does not possess, and I assume here that Elfish Ladies are conformed generally after the same fashion that hobwit ladies are. Nor is it in the part which is that part that is the end of my finger, though the part I refer to might verily be thought 'finger-like' if glanced briefly in dim light on the occasion of me having happy thoughts whilst watching certain hobwit lasses skinny-dipping in The Puddle, though not the ugly ones."  
And they laughed at that, and their night passed both serenely and somewhat energetically... _

_Bango woke next morning with a root in his back and a certain part of his body very chafed and sore, but it was not the part that was that part that was the end of his finger. And Bango mulled over things as he blinked in the morning sun. He wondered if, after all, last night had been nothing more than a big marvellous sweaty dream. Mind you, his palms were not the least bit chafed, as one might expect if indeed that part of his body (that was not the part of his body that was the end of his finger) had been worked vigorously all through the night by his determined hand while sleeping, and yet it could not be denied that the former part I mentioned was red and sore. _

_Anyway, the Elfish Lady had mysteriously vanished, not even the end of her finger remained - though it was surely possible she had just wandered off while he was asleep - that sleep having been a long deep sleep full and content.  
Bango never found out that the Elfish Lady was a mighty Princess with Mairn blood (pronounced 'Mair-ren') who sometime later bore his child. For the truth was Bango had not just been dreaming about the events of that night, they had really happened (and they had been great!) It was merely a coincidence that what had happened was exactly as it happened in a lovely dream he was having on a regular basis - indeed, every night. Remarkably, it was the selfsame dream that many other hobwit lads (and hobwit lasses of a certain persuasion) had been having since time immemorial. The truth was Bango had had what we now know as a "right-royal-nocturnal-session" - though this sounds far more elegant when you say it in Elfish.  
Anyhow, the Elfish Lady subsequently (after deep reflection) named the newborn child 'Spiegel'. This translates as "Little Elf-like-Hobwit", but only after passing it down through Sinbarin into Westron and so on into English, and using quite a slab of poetic license as well...._

**C****hapter One**

**A****n Unexpectedly Long Chapter**

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobwit. Not a dirty filthy hole with mysterious stains on the carpet, or ugly dust piles under the sofa, nor yet an absolutely clean and tidy hole, because the hobwit was a bit fat and lazy. If the hole was largely prefabricated, it was nonetheless quite artful (airy-fairy even), decorated in a lovely art deco style. It was full of lovely garish blue and purple lamp-stands and disco-glass chandeliers (not large, everything in the hole was small, including our hero, in more ways than one), and no one knew how the disco-lights were powered, but it had something to do with magic – but more of that later.  
The hobwit's hole (and it was a large one) had a long passage that started at a spiffy green round front door (clever post-modern architecture that) which overlooked The Puddle. The doorway, when open, looked like a mouth puckering in surprise - and one can easily imagine an 'ooh' sound emitting from it. The passage that led from it went straight into the ground, but not absolutely straight, having a variation of three degrees in several places, which was quite undetectable to the naked eye - at least of most people but not to a Builder's eye - you know what they're like!  
The passage went right down through The Hump ('The Hump' as most locals called it, though it was also known as _'The Humping Hill'_ by those in the know). Many doors opened out on both sides of the passage (some of which the hobwit wisely kept securely locked). Some of the doors opened into pantries full of every foodstuff imaginable (including foreign stuff from countries that may or may not have actually existed in Middle-earth). Some opened into enormous clothes-closets (the hobwit had whole rooms full of clothing made by who-the-hell-knows-who). Some opened into bathrooms with elfish posters on the walls (the hobwit was very fond of elfs). At last, the passage exited at the bottom end of The Hump. No one knows what shape or colour the exit portal was, for it was never mentioned in the Red Tome.  
Now the mother of our hobwit: what is a hobwit? My Goodness! What a stupid question! Haven't you even read '_The Hobwit' _yet? (Don't play dumb, you know what book I mean!) Go on – get off with you! Come back when you've read it. I'll wait here until you get back. Sheesh! Some people!

###

Back, are you? And have you read it? Yeah, sure you have! Oh well, I do know _you're _type and I guess I shouldn't pretend I don't. [Sigh!] Here goes…

Hobwits are (or were) a furry little species somewhere on the evolutionary scale between rabbits and humans. They are (or were) very cute and cuddly and have (or had) furry feet – and they smoke (or smoked) a lot of pipe-weed – at least the more well-to-do do (or did). Mind you, the poorer hobwits eked out their lives in muddy holes or under large stones and can't (or couldn't) afford tinder-boxes or matches, let alone narcotic plants introduced from Numbynor... Oh did I mention hobwits have (or had) naturally curly brown hair growing on their heads and on their naturally leather-like feet, but not anywhere else as far as I know? And food - they love it (or loved it), and a lot of it, if they can (or could) get it. Oh and they are (or were) really popular with females of every persuasion (if persuaded) because hobwits remind (or reminded) them ever so much of teddy bears. Well, this should be enough to go on with.  
Now Bango Bigguns – the hero of our tale - was a well-to-do hobwit. Yes, that's his name! No, I'm not pulling your chain! Anyhow, he was about fifty years old, a portly chap, and set in his ways. If you had asked him what he thought about adventures (for instance) he would have said he could take them or leave them but preferred to leave them. In fact, sneaking around The Shire at night, either studying the stars (yeah, right!) or hoping to meet elfs in the woods, was the height of adventure for him. As to doing anything dangerous – nah – he'd have given it a miss every time. You could tell _that_ just by looking at him. He was a self-satisfied tubby little chap and going off on dangerous adventures was just something _respectable_ hobwits never did. And, I mean, he lived a life of ease for God's sake! Why the hell would he need to go off and risk his life? Indeed, he was a second edition of his solid, stolid and squalid father, the reputable Baldy Bigguns who had been extremely respectable – apparently.  
Now – the mother of Bango Bigguns was the famous Helbanga Toot. How Baldy hooked up with her is anyone's guess, for she was a daughter of the Old Toot who lived at Grave Smells across The Puddle. I can tell you now the Toots were not respectable at all. Not that Helbanga was by any means the worse of them – her two sisters were. They were famous those girls – though the word _infamous_ seems a better description. Begbanga and Flabanga Toot were well _known _all over the Shire - _very_ well _known_ if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Anyhow, I think you definitely have enough to go on with.  
One morning, when the world was green and innocent (apparently), Grandelf came along... Oh damn! Is that the time? Well, off to bed you go. I'll pick up the story tomorrow night! Don't pout! Get to bed! Or do you want me to get the switch out?

###

Now, where were we? Ah! This is the bit I think…

One sunny morning, Bango was sitting out on his doorstep puffing away on his pipe, enjoying the last of his Bongbottom Leaf, when an old fellow came hobbling up Slipshod Lane. (The old fellow seemed to have a bad back, but as that doesn't come into the story, I won't mention it again). When the fellow reached Bango, he cast the little hobwit in his shadow (possibly deliberately) then straightened up (so he might have been hobbling for some other reason than having a bad back) and thrust out his bushy eyebrows.  
Bango put aside the letters he'd been opening (tearing up the bills, of course) and looked up at the strange apparition before him. What he saw was a tall man – though he was not actually a man at all, as it turns out, even if he looked ever so much like one, and an old one at that. The old man-like fellow wore a pointy wizard's hat, and a long blue-grey wizard's cloak, and big black wizard's boots (the ones you get from wizard shops) who leaned on a sturdy wizard's staff held in an ancient hand that looked like it had been burnt several times by wizard's fire. Bango wondered if he was a wizard.  
"Good morning," Bango greeted the man-like fellow brightly, for the hobwit was in a chipper mood, having eaten for breakfast seven rashes of bacon and seven thick pancakes smothered in golden syrup, washed down with seven pints of milk (possibly goat's milk, but who can know?) Anyway, the little fellow had every reason to feel good. Greatly contented, he sent out an enormous puff of black smoke to float out over The Hump. The puff of black smoke looked exactly like a black puff of black smoke, but it might easily have been mistaken for a little black cloud, if the sunlight had not been so bright and the general visibility so excellent. Old Bango was very proud of it anyhow. "It's a good morning for blowing an artistic puff, don't you think? Lovely puff, that!"

"Very nice," the stranger lied. "And what a lot of things you use _'Good morning'_ for!"  
"Pardon me?"  
"And to think I should be greeted at the door of Helbanga Biggun-Toot's chubby son, as if I was some disreputable button salesman…!"  
"Are you selling buttons?"  
"No – sold out."  
"Who are you anyway?"  
"You might know me by many names."  
"I don't know you by any names."  
"Ah!" the old man-like fellow said sadly, "I suppose it has been a long time since I was in these parts. Yes, thirty five years – and possibly more. Let me help. My name around here is Grandelf."  
"_Grandelf_ did you say?" Bango ruminated. "Now that does sound kind of familiar… Are you an elf?"

"No, sadly I'm not."

"But your name…?"

"Just one of those quirky things really... though I'm a Mair from Eleanor and so have a fairly good relationship with them. Funny to say, but most folk think I'm a wizard. I'm not really, you know. Or, at least, not technically..."

"Yes, you do look like a wizard," Bango mused aloud, "a real vagabond type." Then he burst out somewhat disapprovingly, "My goodness, just look at your grubby wild-eyed face and long grey hair and beard! My! They're down to your midriff and buttocks! And all tangled up and knotty and filthy with twigs and cobwebs! Have you been sleeping under hedges by any chance?"  
"Of fiddle-faddle," Grandelf answered ruefully, as he rubbed his back (perhaps he did have a bad back after all), "Where I sleep, and who I sleep with, is nobodies business."  
"There's a lot of it," Bango continued.  
"Pardon me?"  
"You've got a lot of hair."  
"Oh I see. Very distinguished don't you think?"  
"Long and messy I'd call it."  
Indeed, Grandelf had a lot of grey hair, dirty as mentioned, and long and wispy, and not tied up with one ribbon, elastic band or bobby-pin. In fact, had his hairdressers been there they would have been disgusted with him. And the dandruff! Oh my God – the dandruff! Actually, his hairdressers in Needlegap (above Bushel Bog) were well aware of his dandruff problem. Indeed, they often called him "Dandruff", and often right to his face! The wizard would love to have spanked those impertinent hobwit lasses (for more than one reason) but as they were the only fully professional hairdressers in Middle-earth in the Third Age, he kept an even temper.  
"Well, never mind my hair," Grandelf frowned. "I need to talk to you."  
"Grandelf!" Bango suddenly exclaimed. "I remember you now!"  
Yes, it was Grandelf! Oh blimey! If you had heard only seven percent of what I've heard about him, and I only know about seven percent of all there is to know, you'd be prepared for seven percent of any sort of tale about him! Bango remembered him alright and knowing it he could not contain himself.

"Not the Grandelf whose amazing fireworks stimulated Hobwiton about thirty five years ago!" the little fellow went on excitedly. "Oh how I adored those fireworks! Snapdragons and rhododendrons, and agapanthus too, and rows of pansies set out in neat boxes – pansies of many colours! I remember them from when I was a gay little lad. Wonderful! Not the Grandelf who had a special sky rocket you showed to little hobwit boys and girls, but only in private, and only after they had sworn seriously binding oaths to not reveal what they had seen - so as not to spoil the surprise for other little hobwit boys and girls! Not the Grandelf who gave Candy Cotton a pair of magic bracelets that clasped her wrists to her ankles and left her weary but smiling come Monday! Not the Grandelf who was responsible for so many hobwit lads and lasses going off on wild adventures, everything from climbing trees, to burning them down, to chopping them up for pulp to sell to industrialized nations! Off you'd take them into any dark wood or cave you could find – never to return! Life used be quite inter - I mean, you seem to be responsible for any number of unexplained disappearances…"  
"Oh well," Grandelf smiled nostalgically, "You at least remember my fireworks kindly at any rate – though not very accurately, as you seem to have confused them with a variety of flowering annuals and shrubs. Nonetheless, for the sake of your buxom but dead mother I'll send you on this adventure I'm planning. It's the least I can do..."  
"What adventure?"  
"The one I'm sending you on!"  
Bango became suspicious (as well he might). "You did say '_an adventure_'?"  
"Yes, I wish you'd listen. I don't want to say too much this early in the story, but I plan to send you off on a dangerous adventure with thirteen dwarves. They're off to kill a Mythological Beast (I must be careful of spoilers, of course!) After the Mythological Beast is dead, you can take it's ...er… stuff. (I'm not at liberty to mention what the stuff is – for the same reason I just gave in the brackets above). Frankly, I've had a bugger of a time finding someone like you simply begging to go along."  
"I never begged any such thing!" Bango exclaimed.  
"Yes you did."  
"No, I didn't!"  
"Yes you did - several times."  
"Several times?"  
"Well, at least twice."  
"I don't want any adventures, thank you very much!"  
"But it will be hilarious for me and possibly financially beneficial for you - if you live that is."  
"Financially beneficial, did you say?" Bango asked, showing he was not quite as prosy (whatever that means) as he thought he was, especially when it came to gaining a financial advantage. "Where would we be going exactly?"  
"Oh over there somewhere, you know," Grandelf smiled down at him, "Way away over there!" As he spoke, Grandelf stretched out his arm to point in the direction of the Pointy End, a copse of trees that grew on a low hill a few miles east of them, above which pointed the pointiest peaks of the far off Mushy Mountains.  
Bango squinted at the Pointy End shading his eyes in the bright sunlight. He frowned uneasily. As far as he knew, there had never been a confirmed sighting of any Mythological Beasts in the Pointy End (though Old Dickie Nob the town drunk swore he had seen a big breasted tree walking there one summer evening – of course no one believed him). But Bango did know about all those hobwit lads and lasses going off with Grandelf, never to return...

"So _you_ want _me_ to go _there_ with _you_?" Bango asked in consternation.

"I do indeed," Grandelf grinned down at him.  
"Ah! I don't think so!" Bango squeaked in fright. "I don't want any adventures! Not today! But come around for tea tomorrow and we'll discuss any other fiscal plans you might have! Yes, come around tomorrow!" And the flustered and flummoxed little fellow scuttled into his hobwit hole slamming the door right in the wizard's face – which was just as well because Grandelf was hoping to stay.  
The wizard stood chuckling on his doorstep for a long time, for he had had plenty of doors slammed in his face over the years and was used to it, and after a time he stepped up to Bango's beautiful art deco front door and, using his magic staff as a gigantic pencil, he scrawled a comprehensive message on its freshly painted surface. The message was written in a runic alphabet, of course, because any type of cursive script - especially Elfish - is inordinately difficult to write if you are using a wizard's staff to do it – you probably didn't know that. Then Grandelf hobbled off down Slipshod Lane to find a masseuse – I can't remember why.

Meanwhile, Bango was gulping down his third breakfast for the morning, thinking he had avoided adventures quite nicely, thank you very much! Yeah, right!

###

Bango had a shocking memory and he totally forgot all about Grandelf and so had absolutely no idea who might be ringing the doorbell the very next evening.  
"I wonder if that's the pipe-weed," he said hopefully and hurried to the door. You can imagine his surprise then when he found it was not his cousin Druggo at all. No, it was an old dwarf with a white egg-stained beard. The dwarf leaned on a clarinet-cum-walking stick and was clad in a hedge-weathered cloak.  
"Dwarfen at your service," the dwarf said in a remarkably feminine voice while bowing deeply.  
"_'Dwarfen'_ did you say?" Bango asked in surprise.  
"Dwarfen, it is."  
"Isn't that _what_ you are, not _who_ you are?"  
"No, it's my name."  
"Oh well then," Bango said slowly. "Pleased to meet you…_'Dwarfen'... _Oh! - and welcome to my humble home…"

A bit stiff perhaps, but how would you feel if a dwarf called Dwarfen unexpectedly came ringing your bell?  
After an awkward moment, Dwarfen said, "So I'll just hang my beard up, shall I?"  
"Yes, please do," Bango said feeling a bit stunned.  
So Dwarfen hung up her beard (the best kind of detachable party beard) on a peg in the hallway. "I could do with a drink, you know," she added as she turned back around.  
Bango blinked, but then he remembered his manners. "Will it beer or whisky?"  
Sternly the dwarf said, "Wine, if you don't mind; and I'll have it in the sitting-room thank you. I'm just off to powder my nose."  
So a bewuthered and beweathered Bango ran off to pour out a dram of Old Vineyard in the sitting-room, seriously wondering what kind of night he might be in for, and was this just some kind of warped joke contrived by Druggo? Before he could come up with any sort of answer though, there was another ring on his doorbell.  
"Now, I don't know what's going on," said our Bango, "but my every instinct tells me that that'll be another dwarf."  
Bango ran and opened his door and...

Yep, another dwarf!

"Bwalin at your service," said the silver bearded dwarf leaning on a flute-cum-walking-stick. He gave a deep bow.  
Bango was speechless.  
The old dwarf (thus the silver beard) straightened up again and spied Dwarfen's beard in the hallway. "Ah! I see my brother is here already."  
"Your brother, did you say?" Bango asked, trying to collect his wits, "No, I don't think so… some strange lady dwarf has turned up, but…"  
"Yes," Bwalin smiled. "I'm actually talking about my _sister_ Dwarfen_,_" and Bwalin gave him a big wink. "She likes to think she's one of the boys, you see. It's a secret known only to us conspirators - and Grandelf, of course."  
"But…" Bango stuttered.  
Bwalin laughed. "Yes, I see you're thinking, _'I__f it's all such a secret, then why blurt it out the first second we meet?'_ Oh Mr Bigguns, as you're our chief burglar-assassin, you'll soon work it out anyhow. I mean to say, the first time we stop for a roadside call of nature and twelve stand while one squats – well, even you'll begin to ask questions!" He laughed again. (He laughed a lot, old Bwalin. He was one of the nicest dwarves you could ever meet.)  
"But…!"  
"Oh dear Mr Bigguns: Grandelf himself told us you were a pumpkin head, and yet surely not even you can be _that_ much of a pumpkin head!" and Bwalin laughed again.  
"But…"  
"Oh dear Mr Bigguns, please stop saying _'but.'_ It's starting to give me the shits. Now, I'll just be off to your third pantry to grab those seventeen beautiful round seed-cakes you baked for your after-supper morsel. I must say, I'm glad I got here before that glutton Bumburr did!" And with that, Bwalin took off down the passageway.  
"Thirteen dwarves," Bango pondered incredulously when he was gone. "Burglar-assassin?" he asked himself in confused alarm (that didn't sound good at all, at all!)  
"Pumpkin Head!" he grated in some annoyance. "My goodness," he added in agitated befuddlement, "this is turning out to be the most awkward Wednesday since the Wednesday before last!"  
And then the doorbell rang again.

By now Bango was becoming a trifle miffed – as well he might – though he now remembered yesterday's (sometimes esoteric) conversation with Grandelf. "If I didn't know better, that old scallywag has gone and brought an adventure right into my hole," complained our Mr Bigguns. "But if Grandelf thinks I'm going to sneak off into some Mythological Beast's palace, murder him, and steal his ruby slippers – or whatever – well, that wizard's got another thing coming! My goodness me, as if I'd ever be capable of doing such a thing!"  
Then the doorbell rang again, long and loud, as if some angry jilted husband had come to take him to task.  
"Not another dwarf!" Bango growled and hurried to open the door. But it wasn't a dwarf. It was seven of them. And before you could say _"How's your mother?"_ they had pushed into his hallway and were bowing, and hanging up hoods of assorted colours on pegs, and putting drum-cum-pots, and cymbals-cum-earrings, and harps-cum-portable-clotheslines, and electric-guitars-cum-axes (two of them) neatly in a corner.  
Then they all lined up and intoned in unison, "Biffo, Boppo, Ignory, Snorey, Groin, Poin and Snodgrass – at your service."  
Surprisingly, given the unsettling circumstances, Bango remembered the proper protocols this time. "And me at you, yours, your mothers, fathers and all your distant relatives!"  
The formalities dealt with, the seven dwarves hurried off to raid Bango's pantries. In a trice they were in the sitting-room with Dwarfen and Bwalin, eating and drinking like pigs, and talking like they were a bunch of old and very dear friends (though, in fact, half of them hated each other).  
Bango got out a couple of bottles of Old Vineyard and plopped down on the hallway rug. "If they're all staying," he muttered to himself, "I'm going to get pissed!"  
Then a loud knock came at the door. It was as if some naughty person was hitting it firmly with a large stick - or maybe even a staff.  
"More dwarves for sure," Bango hissed despairingly and took a huge swig from one of his bottles. He then started weeping into his hands. But he was interrupted by an even louder knocking on his door. "If that's not a wizard's staff, then I'm the descendant of a rodent," he muttered bitterly, "which I'm _not_, no matter what Mayor Whitefeet thinks!" He looked around for his walking stick, "I'll give that Grandelf what for!" And, angry as a dragon in a pinch, he leapt to his furry feet. But he could not find his walking stick – which only made him angrier still (as angry as a Balrog with an invitation to a pool party, in fact!)  
"Darn Wednesdays!" he cried. "They've been an absolute pain in the buttocks this year!"  
Then the door bell rang insistently- and the extremely irritating and probably destructive knocking started again.  
"Will you open that freaking door!" called the nine dwarves from the sitting-room.  
And Bango did – like a champagne cork!

To Bango's great surprise, a pile of dwarves fell through the door. At a quick count, four of them, with a big fat one on top.

Grandelf stood at the back laughing his guts out. "Dear Bango," he chortled, "It's unlike you to keep unexpected guests waiting on the doorstep and then open it like a champagne cork. You've gone and buried the great Thorny Oakenbeard under three dwarves! I dare say Fowly will soon be cussing and cursing and Growly growling – and we'll probably need a crane to move old Bumburr! Forsooth, I say, and I'll say it again,_ forsooth_!"  
"*:^#! fat hobwit!" cussed one of two yellow bearded dwarves in the middle of the pile - Fowly presumably.  
"This is what you get when a _woman_ insists on coming and making it 'Unlucky Number' time!" growled the other yellow beard – Growly presumably.

"*:^#! women!" Fowly cussed.  
"See!" Grandelf grinned.  
"Lucky I fell on top," said Bumburr who was extremely hefty. "I might have hurt myself otherwise."  
Bango wasn't angry anymore – he was aghast. With Grandelf's help, he lugged Bumburr up onto his tree-stump legs, followed by Fowly and Growly. Slowly and painfully the great Thorny Oakenbeard climbed to his feet and he gave Bango a glare that almost burnt the poor hobwit's face off. But Bango was so repeatedly and utterly apologetically servile, that Thorny finally said, "Pray tell, forget it. Oh God, will you please just shut your blathering trap!" The dwarf then grimaced and drew a deep breath, "Anyway, let's deal with the formalities, shall we! Ahem! I am Thorny, son of Corny, son of Horny - at your service!"  
"Did you say 'Thorny', son of 'Corny', son of 'Horny'?" Bango inquired, quite stunned.  
Thorny frowned, "Yes, _Thorny_, son of _Corny_, son of _Horny_, what of it?"  
"Oh….?"  
"Why does this always happen?" Thorny sighed. "Mr Bigguns, 'Thorny' is short for 'Thorndike', 'Corny' is short for 'Cornwall', and 'Horny' is short for 'Hornrable'. You know, I do get ever so sick of explaining it!"  
"_'Hornrable?' _" Bango asked, his mind going blank.  
"As in 'noble' or 'lordly' or 'gentlemanly'," Grandelf intervened helpfully.  
"Oh – you actually mean _'honourable' _don't you," Bango laughed in relief. "But shouldn't it be "Onny' for short?

"Not at all," Grandelf intervened. "It's a question of dialect, Bango. You're thinking of the Nogrog dialect in which it's pronounced _'honourable' _– Thorny's people originally came from Bludicross in the Aqua Mountains, where it's _'hornrable'_. It's a mistake any pumpkin head could make."  
"Oh… I see…" Bango said, even though he didn't (and I don't suppose you do – unless of course you're a philologist or something).  
Anyhow, a few seconds later a collection of camping-equipment-cum-musical-instruments was deposited in the hall. Immediately afterward, Growly, Fowly and Bumburr stumped off to raid Bango's pantries.  
"I'll get the red wine," growled Growly.  
"I wonder where the *:^#! croissants are!" cussed Fowly.  
"I'm afraid it'll just have to be potatoes and cream buns for me," Bumburr put in sombrely, "I'm on a diet."  
"It seems like they know the contents of my pantries better than I do!" Bango complained.  
"Never mind that, my good hobwit," Thorny said gruffly, "There'll be time for idle banter later on. Off to the sitting-room we go. We've got a fair slab of gluttony and drunkenness to get through tonight – and perhaps a little planning as well."  
So in a trice (or perhaps a 'quart' _time_ being what is in Middle-earth) there were fifteen folk in Bango's sitting-room, scattered about on sofas, barstools and stolen milk crates. Bango took up a position on the hearthrug. He was both subdued and nervous. Sadly he watched as most of his precious comestibles were consumed at an alarming rate.

###

Bango sat on the hearth rug, his appetite quite dented.

He nibbled on a biscuit.

What would happen to him?

He popped down a few jam tarts.

Were these dwarves really here to take him off on an adventure? Things certainly seemed to be moving in that direction.

Down his throat gurgled a pint of eggnog.

He wondered if he could manage a loaf of rye bread spread with pilchards in his upset state.

Yes, he could…  
In the fullness of time Grandelf rose unsteadily in his chair (having hit the port a bit too hard). "I have an important announcement!" he slurred… "Shut up everyone!" he yelled.  
The dwarves, who had been loudly discussing the pros and cons of live theatre for about two hours, fell silent.  
"It's time to get out the pipe-weed," the wizard instructed them. "I hope everyone brought some!"  
Sombrely, the dwarves reached for their pouches. Bango's spirits lifted. He watched in hope as they filled their pipes and lit up. They took a drag in unison, exhaled, then sat back with satisfied expressions and patted their full stomachs and some belched while others farted.  
"I don't suppose someone could lend me a fill," Bango squeaked. "I seem to have run out."  
"How impertinent," Snodgrass sniffed.  
"Fancy him begging for our prized pipe-weed like that!" snorted Biffo, a large tattooed fellow with a nasty jagged scar across his forehead. He looked the type who would kill people without a blink – and probably had.  
"Ungracious swine," grumbled Boppo (who appeared to be Boppo's twin – though he had a scar across his nose, not across his brow).  
Irritated at their attitude, Bango shouted, "Me ungracious! What about all the food you lot have woofed down?!"  
"Now, now," Grandelf said. "You are the host, and you know your duty, no matter how painful."  
"What?"  
"And you must not blame others for your lack of forethought, my good Bango," the wizard added kindly. "Now be quiet a moment. We have even more important things to worry about. Hey, you dwarves! Who's going to start the smoke rings?"  
Then for the next ten minutes the dwarves blew smoke rings in delight. And the more they sucked and the more they blew, the shinier their eyes became.  
"Not bad, not bad..." Grandelf commented as he watched their handiwork with a professional eye, "Oh not such a bad ring that one! Yes that one _almost _got through that other one without _actually_ breaking up first! Not bad at all. Not _too_ bad anyway..."  
Finally, the dwarves cracked the shits with him.  
"Hey!" Poin grumbled. (At least, Bango thought it was Poin, the room being now so full of smoke). "If you can do better, Grandelf, then _do _better!"  
Grandelf's eyes flashed gleefully. It was clear he was waiting for just such an invitation. He drew deep on his pipe. Then out came a smoky multicoloured three ring circus, with performing elephants in one ring, a troop of hobgoblin trapeze artists in another, and in the third a yellow haired, red nosed clown playing croquet with a trained monkey on the broad back of a silver stallion.  
Most of the dwarves clapped in sheer delight as the smoke-circus dissipated, and Fowly said, "Well, that was pretty *:^#! impressive!"  
But Growly was contrary. "I've seen better!"  
"Don't be a nincompoop, Growly!" Dwarfen said scornfully, before addressing the wizard, "Oh Grandelf! That was stupendous! How ever did you do it?"  
"It's just a little something I learned behind the dorms at Hogwarts - when I was just a lad, you know," Grandelf answered, clearly chuffed. "Mind you, I am a _Mair_," he added a trifle pompously, "So much of it comes naturally."  
"Of where?" Snodgrass asked.  
The wizard gazed at him blankly for a moment then snapped, "What do you mean by 'of where?'"  
"What _town _are you the _mayor _of?" Snodgrass repeated slowly, as if he spoke to an imbecile. "It's a simple enough question."  
"I'm not the _mayor _of any _town_!" Grandelf cried.  
"Then why did you say you were a mayor?"  
"No he didn't," said Bwalin, who did not like arguments of any kind. "Grandelf said he was a 'Mair'." The old dwarf smiled suddenly, "And he's not a horse either!"

Everyone laughed.  
"Quite right, dear Bwalin," Grandelf said, giving the dwarf a fond look. (Everyone liked Bwalin).  
"Is that the same as a '_Mayan' _then?" Snodgrass asked.  
"Yes, that's sounds right," Bwalin said sagely, "I trust you're thinking of the 'Mayans' from South America, of course. The singular is _'Mair'_ – odd as that might seem…"  
Grandelf laughed gaily, "No, no, dear Bwalin - though that's an easy mistake to make. No, the word you look for is pronounced '_Mair-ren'_ not _Mayan_. It's spelt

M-A-I-R-N. At the risk of repeating myself: I'm a _Mair -_ from the Blessed Isle of Eleanor, you know."  
"I didn't know #!*^*#! Eleanor was in #!*^*#! South America," Fowly said in surprise.  
"That's because it's not," Grandelf retorted in a slightly miffed superior tone. "Let me help you if I may, young Fowly. The _potato_ came from South America, the _Shimmyrils_ came from Eleanor! Does that help?"  
Fowly's eyes now took a queer inward looking slant, as if he sought answers within but could only find more questions. This was born out when at last he blurted, "Where the #!*^ is _'Eleanor'_ anyway?"  
"Oh off in the west somewhere," Grandelf said vaguely.  
"Well, isn't South America in the distant south-_west_," put in Bango, trying to reconcile the geographic confusion. "It could be the same place!"  
Grandelf smiled tolerantly. "Try not to be too much of a pumpkin head if you can help it, dear Bango."  
"Well, maybe you could sail _west,_" Bango suggested undaunted, becoming more involved in the conversation than he had intended to, "but tack southward just before you get to Eleanor. After that it would be just be a hop and skip and a jump to South America, wouldn't it?"  
"Bango," Grandelf said as patiently as he could, "No hobwit or dwarf can just _sail _anywhere near Eleanor."  
"Why not?" asked all the dwarves at once.  
"Because Eleanor is a Very Special Place," Grandelf answered patiently, "My goodness! It's the _Blessed Isle_! It's the home of the _Valero_, for El's sake!"

"'_Valero' _does soundLatino…" Snodgrass commented. "Hey! I just thought of something. Can _you _get there, Grandelf? To Eleanor, I mean."  
"Of course I can!" Grandelf snapped, and so abruptly they all jumped. Then Grandelf thought a moment, gave a small embarrassed cough, and added, "Well, at least I'll get back in when '_They' _in their wisdom decide to let me back in."  
"How do _we_ get there then?" Bumburr persisted. "If we can't _sail_ there, I mean."  
"For you it's impossible," Grandelf said smugly, "Didn't I just say that? Eleanor is reserved for certain special people, dear Bumburr. It's a place for… ah... well, _special _people - like _me_, for instance."  
"Yeah for _special_ people," Snodgrass sniggered, "like _Grandelf_!"  
Biffo butted in now. "Oh right! So this is how it works: if you're the mayor of some hokey little town in South America that no one has even heard of, you can get in, but if you're a hard working miner-cum-travelling-musician, you can't!"  
Grandelf spluttered, "I told you, I'm not the mayor of some South American town! Have you even been listening?"  
"Isn't Eleanor that place the elfs come and go to?" Thorny Oakenbeard asked rather sourly.  
"It is," Grandelf said, still trying to contain his annoyance.  
"#*!^#! elfs!" Fowly muttered under his breath.  
"Perhaps we might change the subject," Bwalin placated them.  
"Yes," Thorny put in grumpily. "The mere mention of elfs makes my corns throb!"  
"I don't mind talking about elfs," Bango said meekly.  
"What did you say?" everyone asked, scowling at him.  
"Well, I wouldn't mind talking about the elfs."  
"Oh wouldn't you?" scoffed everyone (except Grandelf).  
"No, I wouldn't actually. I really like them you see."  
"That's because you've never met any," Boppo said in a snide way.  
"Yes, I have!"  
"No you haven't!"  
"I have, I say!" Bango said with a blush. "I met one in the woods east of Hobwiton one starry evening when I was barely in my Tweens… It was quite a few years ago, I grant you…"  
"No you didn't!" all the dwarves but one cried.  
"Yes, I did. She was a beautiful elfish lady…!"  
This claim was greeted by an explosion of derisive laughter.  
"Yeah, sure you did!" all of them said, one after the other. "What was her name then?"

"I…. I… I didn't think to ask…"

Twelve dwarves roared with laughter, but Thorny yelled out impatiently: "Enough of this nonsense! Hey! You slobs, tidy up the dishes. Then maybe we can get drunk and have a deep and meaningful conversation!"  
Suddenly, Bango forgot all about elfish maidens and comfy leafy forest floors under the Evenstar, for every dwarf (except Thorny who was far too self-important) jumped up and laid their grubby calloused hands on his cutlery and plates.  
Bango jumped up in a panic. "Oh never mind! I can do it!" he squealed.  
Unfortunately, his distress only seemed to encourage the dwarves. In fact, they burst into song, which is something dwarves often do when they're working, 'Hi Ho Hi Ho' being their definite favourite, as you would already know, though on this occasion they decided to improvise.

_Grab the Host but close all the curtains!  
Then beat up the rodent until he is hurtin'!  
Wrap him in pie dough! Roll him in flour!  
(Oh look at the blighter! See how he cowers!)_

Grab both his legs, pull down his trousers!  
Get a good hold of the timid old wowser!  
Wrestle him down onto his plush carpet!  
Paint both his buttocks with a red target!

Slap him! Spank him! Don't be too soft!  
Tickle his tackle. Let's see if he coughs!  
Oh everyone line up, and don't hesitate!  
But carefully! Carefully! Don't chip the plates! 

Of course, the dwarves did none of these awful things, and in a trice every dish, fork and napkin was cleaned up and put neatly away, while little Bango was left to quiver quite unmolested on the hearth rug.

"All right everyone," Grandelf bellowed after everything was put in good order, "Off into the dining room! We'll sit around Bango's surprisingly long fourteen-seater table and get down to some serious business." The wizard looked down kindly at the little hobwit. "You'll have to sit on the dining room hearthrug I'm afraid, dear Bango."  
"But…"  
Grandelf cut Bango off, "Now, now, let's not go over that what's-in-a-good-host-however-painful business again!"  
"But…"  
Bwalin bent down and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, the end of the dwarf's beard tickling his ear, "Come along, my furry-footed friend. You know how we dislike all this _'but' _behaviour of yours."  
"What _'butt' _behaviour," Biffo called from across the dining room. Bango could see him through the adjoining doorway, a look of stern interest on his battle-beaten face. "He's not a poof, is he?"  
"No, not at all," Bwalin laughed (he had a very nice laugh), "Oh Biff, you've gone up the entirely wrong passage again - as usual!" And the old dwarf laughed again. And so did everyone else, except Bango, and Biffo, who continued to stare at him disconcertingly.

Once they were all seated (with Bango on the hearthrug), Grandelf began immediately.  
"Dear dwarves and hobwit, I have gathered you here for a specific reason…."  
"I hope you're going to keep this short!" Thorny Oakenbeard interrupted. "Don't go telling us a heap of stuff we already know!"  
"Well, if that's how it must be" Grandelf said in an offended tone, "Now everyone, there are many things we've discussed already, but I think it only fair to say that our audacious and implacable burglar-assassin doesn't know the whole plan as yet…"  
"I don't know any part of the plan yet!" Bango squeaked, feeling all trembling inside.  
"Yes, quite right. Now, Bango, as you are well aware, we are off to slay the biggest, scariest, fiercest, nastiest firedrake of this firedrake infested time – or, at least, _you_ are! After that, you can help steal his treasure…"  
"It's _my_ treasure!" Thorny Oakenbeard grumbled.  
"Sorry," Grandelf answered testily, "_Thorny's_ treasure! The chances are, of course, that Smug will roast you on sight Bango, and then eat you quick as this..." Grandelf popped a small piece of seed-cake into his be-whiskered mouth. "If so, the dwarves will come back empty-handed…."  
This was all very distressing really - though at least now the hobwit knew what the Mythological Beast was that Grandelf had referred to yesterday. They wanted him to kill Smug the Firedrake! Bango shuddered. At the mention of _'Smug will roast you on sight,'_ the poor little fellow felt a shriek rise in his voice-box. And when he heard: _'the dwarves will come back empty-handed' _he became horribly indignant. "Those selfish bastards!" he was thinking. "I mean to say, aren't they prepared to help me in a tight spot!" The shriek that had risen in his voice-box now sang out from his mouth like a high pitched whistle. It was a shriek full of terror and furious anger – though it came across to the others as pure hysteria. In fact, it sounded to the dwarves like he had gone quite mad.  
Fortunately Boppo, who had once worked at the BLUDICROSS HOME FOR THE APPARENTLY INSANE, knew exactly what to do. The brawny battle-hardened dwarf jumped off his chair, launched himself at Bango, and knocked him flat using an open handed cuffing motion, so as not to leave any telltale bruising.  
Everything went dark grey, and streaky orange-red, and wispy…

###

Gradually, Bango swam back up into consciousness. Where was he? Oh! He was on his dining room hearthrug! Then he overheard conversation – it was Groin talking.  
"One shriek like that echoing in the bowels of Mount Solitaire and not only will Smug be on us, but so will his mother and father, and his second cousin Julian!"  
"I assure you, our burglar-assassin has nerves of steel!" Grandelf reassured him. "He was only a little overexcited just now."  
"Well, he looks more like a _worrier_ than a _warrior_," Groin commented cynically (and Snodgrass sniggered). "He made a noise like a train whistle issuing from a railway tunnel!"  
"I can't begin to tell you how anachronistic that sounds!" Dwarfen put in.  
"Yes, and you're a _woman _and so you'd _know_, isn't that right!" Groin snapped at her.  
Grandelf thrust out his heavy eyebrows angrily, "Groin, son of Swoin, son of Quoin, I'm ashamed of you! Dwarfen has as much a right to speak her mind in this company as any of us, irrespective of how esoteric and typically womanly her comments!"  
"Yes," Thorny Oakenbeard said, "Just because she's a _woman _doesn't mean we should treat what she says any differently than the _actual_ males in this party!"  
"All right, I take it back, Dwarfen," Groin grumbled, "but I still think Bango sounded like a train whistle!" Groin now turned to glare across at Bango. "Just look at him! He's more your petty-thief creep-up-behind type, not a genuine burglar-assassin! And I wish he'd stop bobbing up and down on the hearthrug!"  
By now Bango had recovered enough from his cuff to the head to exclaim angrily, "I'm not _bobbing_ - I'm trying to get a crick out of my neck! And, by the way, you're right: I'm _not_ a burglar-assassin!"  
"You are, you know," Grandelf said fondly.  
"No, I'm not!"  
"Well, you did steal into Mayor Whitefeet's house..."  
"I did not! Primadonna invited me in!"  
"Ah! Yes! And you stole a kiss or two from her, did you not?"  
"She gave them away freely!"  
"And what about this business I heard of you stabbing old Whitefeet in the back..."  
"It was only _metaphorically_!"  
"The point is," Grandelf said, "we need someone small and sneaky to come with us; someone who has very few scruples; someone that can creep in and find a way to assassinate a gigantic firedrake when he's not looking – or sleeping.... Shut up! Don't interrupt, Bango! I'm talking now...! Where was I...? Oh yes, we also need another Conspirator to come along, or else be stuck with thirteen dwarves – and that's an _unlucky _number in anyone's language!"  
"Well, there are _fourteen _of you already!" Bango yelled incredulously (and somewhat hopefully).  
"I hope you're not including me in that count," Grandelf said sternly. "I'll come along for part of the journey, yes, but I'll leave you long before you reach Mount Solitaire."  
"Why?"  
"I'm off to do something we'll probably only find out about later," Grandelf said.  
"Huh?"  
"Let's not argue like this, old friend, I'm trying to help you!"  
Desperately, Bango gasped, "Even if I could kill a firedrake, I could never steal his property! I'm not a thief, no matter what people say!"  
The thirteen dwarves burst out in laughter.  
"What?" Bango wanted to know.  
"So say you!" Bwalin put in, "But aren't you the selfsame hobwit that even now has Biffo's long stolen cloak hanging on a peg in the hallway?"  
_"Oh,"_ Bilbo thought blushing, _"so these are __those__ dwarves...!"_  
"It does seem ironic that it was you who stole my cloak all those years ago," Biffo said and gave him a sardonic smile. "The two of us being _what_ we are, and all..."  
"No we're not!" Bango squeaked, knowing exactly what the brawny tattooed dwarf was getting at. "What I mean is: _I'm_ not like _that_ at all!"  
Grandelf said, "That is as may be, Bango – the point is, you seem to have exhausted all your arguments against coming along, so let's move on, shall we?"  
The wizard began to ruffle around within his own cloak and pulled out a curious map and key.  
"What are they?" Thorny Oakenbeard asked.  
"They're a few curios you're grandfather Horny had. At least, I'm fairly sure he was Horny. I took them from him in the dungeons of the Necromancer."  
Everyone gasped in horror at the mention of that chilling name (or title), even Bango, an unworldly hobwit from The Riding had heard of the Necromancer!  
"You mean to say you snuck into the Necromancer's dark tower?" Thorny Oakenbeard asked, as he unfolded the map on Bango's fourteen-seater table. "How ever did you manage that?"  
"Well, I didn't exactly _sneak _in," Grandelf said. "You see, many years ago I popped into Dol Guldur to discuss a few topical things, and when I was there the Necromancer showed me around. As a consequence I was shown into Horny's cell. I discovered your poor relative in an absolutely parlous state – but fortunately he had this map as well as a key on him so my time was not totally wasted. They were the last of his worldly goods, as even his clothes had rotted away by then. You might not want to hear this Thorny, but old Horny was covered head to tow with deep and jagged whip-marks, and he had weeping sores everywhere – disgusting! And he positively stank of rotting flesh: Yuk, Yuk and Yuk! Anyway, I immediately asked the Necromancer if I could take the map and key. You see, it was utterly obvious Horny's brain was sheer mush, and it was not like he was ever going to be able to use them again! The _curios_, that is!" Grandelf laughed suddenly, "Anyway, here's the key."  
"You took them from my grandfather!" Thorny mouthed in utmost surprise as he stared bleakly from map to key and back again.  
"Well, at least on the _balance of probabilities_ it was your Grandfather, but there is a small chance it was actually _Corny_, your father. Whoever he was, he couldn't remember his own name as he lay there in a pool of his rotting juices. But he was the spitting image of you Thorny, even if his face was seriously eaten away with dungeon-rot and maggots. It's the _likeness _with you that makes me think he was Horny not Corny. Anyway, seeing it was a map of Mount Solitaire with a secret door marked on it, and as the key appears to go with the map, I thought they might come in useful at some stage."  
"The Necromancer just let you take them?" Thorny asked in amazement.  
"Well, it's not like I didn't ask nicely. And, remember, it was quite a few years ago, long before he turned nasty. Mirkwood is a very bad environment if you ask me, and perhaps we should have seen it coming – no wonder he _turned_, if you know what I mean. And he was such a handsome chap, the Necromancer, all shiny... and very charming... with a lovely smile..."

"But what about the way he treated my grandfather?"

"Well he had been caught snooping around - and the penal code of the times being what they were..."  
"Hey!" yelled Snorey suddenly, "You must know who the Necromancer is then!"  
"No, not really," Grandelf replied, somewhat sheepishly, "I forgot to ask... they were happier times, you see.... In those days you could meet people but not feel the need to ask intrusive questions – trusting times... Mind you, I admit I had a terrible feeling he was faking it even then...."  
Thorny asked, "Why didn't you mention all this before?"  
"Oh I wanted to surprise you," Grandelf said and smiled triumphantly. "I do know how much you love surprises!"  
All the other dwarves laughed and nodded knowingly. "He does, you know. Hey Thorny, he's quite right, isn't he!"  
Thorny frowned at Grandelf at first, but then he suddenly smiled. "Yes," he chuckled, "You've got me there, dear Grandelf. It's so true. I just love surprises. Oh it's just so true!"

And he laughed again – they all did.  
But their merriment was short lived, for Bango asked suddenly, "What _topical _things did you discuss with the Necromancer, Grandelf?"  
Grandelf cast him an annoyed glance. "Oh a few things... but never you mind. Anyway, everyone, it's all settled now! We've got our Mr Lucky Number burglar-assassin, and now a very useful map and key as well, and, of course, thirteen stout dwarves to carry back the treasure after Bango stabs Smug to death. Things have worked out perfectly..."  
"No they haven't," Bango protested shrilly, "As if I can kill the nastiest firedrake since Sarkastic the Insensitive! The very idea is ludicrous! I'm only three foot three!"  
"Oh I wish you'd stop beating that dead horse, Bango!" Grandelf said severely. "You might be a short arse - but not by hobwit standards!"  
"Anyway, Mr Bigguns," Bwalin put in encouragingly, "it's not the _size _of the hobwit it's the _size_ of the _fight_ in the hobwit that matters!"  
"Let's have another song!" Ignory yelled out suddenly, because it was well and truly his turn to say something.  
"Good idea," Thorny cried. "Go and get our camping-equipment-cum-musical instruments everyone!"  
So off they ran into the hallway.  
"Just grab my harp-cum-portable-clothesline, lads," Thorny called after them, "but don't forget to un-peg my socks!"  
After that, they retired back to the sitting-room, and as soon as Biffo and Boppo had plugged their electric-guitars-cum-axes into the Power-Orbs Bango had only recently bought from the Magical Mystery Company outlet in Needlegap, the dwarfish orchestra struck up a cacophonous music… Then the Company stopped for a few seconds while Bwalin cleaned grass out the end of his flute-cum-walking-stick… Then the dwarfish orchestra struck up once again. And I assure you, the music they struck up could definitely be described as peculiarly interesting. Next thing, the dwarves started singing. It was the deep throated slightly gay singing of dwarves in their deep ancestral caverns, coal pits and storm-water tunnels:

_Far beyond the far off __Mushy Mountains,  
Past all those trees and lakes with fountains,  
We must away ere break of day - not later! -  
To go and kill that big and nasty fire-gator._

In days of yore, if not before, at least ages ago,

_Smug came flying south and struck a great blow,  
His trampling feet and fiery breath killed heaps of us,  
He powered through our Mountain like a runaway bus._

And now that firedrake has all our valuables,  
Diamonds, gems, and metals malleable!  
He's got our each and every special stone,  
Including the more than famous Farkenstone!

Oh we must away early come the morning dim,  
_ To wrest our marvellous treasure from the Crim!_

And then the music and the voices fell silent - which was just as well, because it was the worst song Bango had ever heard.  
"Off to bed now!" Grandelf called out in a jolly voice. "Or else we'll sleep in and therefore make the song incorrect in at least one detail."  
Bango wanted to ask more questions but Grandelf poked him with his staff a few times and shooed him protesting into his bedroom. Once inside, the hobwit noticed Biffo's brawny shadow lurking in the passageway, so he quickly locked the door. With nothing better to do, he got ready for bed. He was feeling all knotty and upset in the stomach, as well he might, and it did not help when he glanced out his window and saw a huge mass of flame shoot up over the slums of East Hobwiton. It made him think of firedrakes settling, fires blazing, on his beloved Hump…  
Just then, Thorny Oakenbeard began to sing in the room next to him:

"_Far beyond the far off __Mushy Mountains,  
Past all those trees and lakes with fountains…"_

Bango shuddered again, and he swiftly put in earplugs. He sincerely hoped there would not be too much singing in the days ahead…

33


End file.
